


One Goes Alone

by Moontyger



Category: Susan Cooper - Dark Is Rising series
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:Mrs. Velvet Ears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens to the hero of a story after the story's done? It wasn't a question Will Stanton had had much cause to consider before, but he was thinking about it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Goes Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to both Llwyden and Kristin for their awesome beta-reading!

What happens to the hero of a story after the story's done? "When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won", as Shakespeare would have said, though Will only knew that because they'd just done MacBeth this term. It wasn't a question Will Stanton had had much cause to consider before, but he was thinking about it now.

Not all the time, of course. Most of the time he was just a boy, twelve-going-on-thirteen, nothing outwardly special at all. He did well enough in school and got along as well as could be expected with his many siblings, but he didn't stand out and he rarely had time for introspection. But sometimes, when he was idle or alone or simply bored - those brief interstices of a busy life when he had nothing to do but think and feel - he wondered.

Sometimes he wondered instead how he hadn't seen it coming. He'd known all along that he was the last and youngest of the Old Ones; known as well that this battle would be the final one. What had he thought it would mean for him?

The truth, he supposed, was that there'd simply been no time. Far more important to concentrate on winning the battle, on fulfilling his role and not letting everyone down. It had been plenty to think about, more than a normal boy of his age could have borne. The other Old Ones might have known, but perhaps it hadn't occurred to them either. It had been a long time since they'd been as young as Will. Perhaps they hadn't thought he'd be lonely, never considered that he would sometimes feel such a sense of loss that he felt nearly hollow. They wouldn't have meant to hurt him. But he couldn't help remembering the way Merriman had avoided the question when he asked about the one who would go alone, couldn't forget what John Rowland had said about the cruelty at the heart of the Light.

On the other hand, even if Merriman had known, what could he have done? His role was finished and he was tired, infinitely weary after untold centuries of life. Will couldn't find it in himself to blame him; couldn't be so selfish as to ask him to stay longer when he could finally have the peace he'd longed for. He'd told Will from the beginning that it was a burden, a heavy responsibility that he could not put down. He'd thought he'd accepted it.

Perhaps he was only thinking about it so much lately because it was still recent, a bare six months since the Old Ones had departed the world. Or maybe it had more to do with the date: Midwinter Eve, the night it had all begun. Will's last night as a wholly normal boy, though he hadn't known it then. It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Will, come on!" James was practically dancing in front of him, eager to leave the crowded house and impatient with a younger brother staring moodily out a window. "It's nearly dark and we still have to go to Dawson's Farm."

Will nodded and got to his feet, though the prospect didn't make him feel any better. They still called it Dawson's Farm, but Mr. Dawson was gone. They all were: Mr. Dawson and his wife, Old George and John Wayland Smith. Strangers ran the farm now and no amount of kindness could make up for the loss, a loss no one else shared in the same way and that he couldn't possibly explain.

He put on his coat, scarf, and gloves and followed his brother in silence, a quiet that was echoed by their surroundings when they stepped outside and shut the door, leaving behind the noisy chatter and loud music of a house packed with siblings returned for the holiday. It ought to be comforting, like a return to the past when he'd felt safe and warm, surrounded by his family. Normally he felt that the house was becoming increasingly strange as it slowly emptied, year after year, each older brother or sister in turn moving out as they all grew up and left Will, the youngest in this family as well, behind. Somehow, though, in his current mood, he found it more stifling than otherwise, and he was only able to relax now, outside in the cold air that at least wasn't always asking him to do something or arguing in the background.

"What's wrong with you today, Will?" James demanded, already halfway to the rabbit hutches so Will could feed them before they began the trek to the farm. "You seem half asleep. Are you sick or something?"

 _Half asleep?_ That sounded about right, if not in the way James meant it. Will still had all the extra senses and awareness of an Old One, but without any reason to use them, he found himself feeling dull and barely alive more often than he would have thought possible. But he hadn't realized anyone else had noticed.

"It's just different this year," he answered finally as they began the trek to the farm, the empty handcart pulled behind them. "So many people are gone." Will stared at the darkening sky instead of his brother, remembering how it had looked covered with rooks on a night just like this one. So little separated that moment and this; an Old One understood that in a way no one else could. But even if he could explain it so that James could understand, Will would have said nothing. While it had been the two of them together that night, only he remembered what had happened. Just one more thing no one else remembered, another secret he had to keep, to add to all the rest. Only memories and technically intangible, but sometimes their accumulated weight seemed unbearable.

James took nearly as long to reply as Will had, walking along the road in unusual silence. By the time he answered, they were nearly at the farm. "I guess it is." He sounded uncomfortable and Will felt momentarily guilty; he hadn't meant to share his own dark mood with his more cheerful brother.

When they reached the farm, he felt worse. The new owner, a man about Mr. Stanton's age who was supposed to be distantly related to Mr. Dawson, was both cheerful and friendly, inviting them in for cocoa and pie just as though he'd known them all their lives instead of only moving in recently. He was just a normal man, a human like all of Will's family, but that wasn't something to hold against him. It was supposed to be a sign of progress. The Dark had lost; this world was for men now. This was merely a sign of the new order of things, and a promising one at that. As long as there were men like this one, the world would be well. He tried to concentrate on that thought instead of his loneliness, to make it be enough and, for awhile, it almost was.

* * *

The next morning, Will awakened early. The house was silent, but he could hear the few birds hardy enough to stay for the winter greeting the sun outside. No snow, then, but that was all right. After the terrible snowstorm that had nearly frozen the country, he hadn't been so keen on it as he had once been.

There was no reason to go outside, no strange skip in time or sudden change in the world, but Will got dressed anyway, and slipped quietly downstairs to get his coat.

Outside, the view was the same as always: the same road, the same house. But Will walked resolutely on, up Hunterscombe Lane towards Dawson's Farm, just as he had when all this land had been a snow-covered forest. He lifted his head and stared up at the cloudy sky for a few steps: there were birds there, but their passage across the sky meant nothing. They were spies for no one and bore no messages. He looked down then, watching his booted feet kicking determinedly through damp, rotting leaves with a purposefulness that seemed entirely detached from Will himself. Nothing changed: the view behind and before were just the same as they'd always been. He was thirteen today and the world didn't notice.

It wasn't unusual, he told himself sternly. Not surprising at all. If it hadn't been for his eleventh birthday, he would have never expected anything different. Why should the world change just for him? But now... He stopped walking, standing still and alert along the edge of an empty road, muscles taut and every sense straining.

For a moment, the air seemed clearer, clean and crisp with the scent of fresh snow, and the world seemed to hold its breath. For just a few seconds, the space of a breath or three, he heard faintly the sound of a hammer on iron. But as he turned his head, already smiling in anticipation, he felt something slip, like he'd bumped a table and just missed catching some fragile ornament on it before it fell, and it was gone. The smithy existed in the past and Will was still here, in the twentieth century.

He considered trying again, but shook his head. No, that wasn't the way. The Old Ones still existed in the past and he could find them there, if there were need, but not for this. He shouldn't bother them merely because he was lonely, shouldn't disturb them when they had other concerns, not just because he'd been reduced to being ordinary after a year and a half of being otherwise. It would be selfish and, worse, foolish. After all, the Dark had been there in the past as well. What if he accidentally opened a door for them, negating the victory they'd worked so hard for? No, Will wouldn't do that.

Yet as he turned around and started home, he felt better; his steps were lighter than before. He'd made up his mind and there was something to be said for that. There was something to be said, too, for the family he'd found so stifling before, he decided as soon as he opened the door. Will arrived home to the smell of breakfast accompanied by enthusiastic greetings and birthday wishes from his parents and two early-rising siblings.

"Same birthday tea as last year?" his mother asked from the kitchen, as red-faced as Will at the moment, an identical effect from an opposite cause.

He nodded, ignoring the face James made. They all had to suffer through whatever their siblings wanted once a year; he wasn't going to change what he liked just because someone else couldn't stand it. "Yes, please."

Mary shook her head at him, making an almost mournful face that Will couldn't help but laugh at as she helped Mrs. Stanton serve breakfast to the five of them. "Thirteen already. How time flies."

"You haven't seen anything yet. Wait until its your own youngest turning thirteen," their father replied.

She tossed the long hair she was so proud of in answer. "No offense to Mum, but I don't think I'll have quite so many."

Will tuned them out, turning his attention to the food. A long walk before breakfast had left him ravenous and he found bacon and eggs and his mother's fresh-baked bread far more interesting than the conversation, even if it had begun by being about him. After all, he might be an Old One, but his body was still only just thirteen and growing rapidly.

Tea that night was even better. Not only did he get to have liver and bacon, his favorite, but he got presents as well. And for once, the present that gave him the most pleasure was not the one sent by his older brother Stephen. No, that honor belonged to the one gift that was completely unexpected: a package that had arrived in the post only that afternoon. At first, when Will saw that it was from Wales, he assumed it was from his aunt and uncle, even though they hadn't sent him presents before. He'd stayed with them twice now; that might be reason enough for a gift.

But no. He knew once it was in his hands that he'd been wrong. Something about this package felt momentous, as though it were a door that, once opened, couldn't be shut, as though the very act of opening it would change things. Which was ridiculous, of course. No ordinary gift could make such a difference. The things of power could, but they were gone from the world and, even if someone found one they'd missed, who was left to send it to him?

Yet it still struck him breathless when he opened it. Not for what it was: a small volume of Welsh history. Nor for the note accompanying it: "Thought you could stand to learn something, _Sais_." Simple, even ordinary, nothing at all like the six signs of the Light or the golden harp.

But it was special because of what it meant. No matter how little he remembered, Bran still considered them friends. More than that: friends close enough that he'd bothered to ask when Will's birthday was, to get him a gift even though they hadn't spoken in six months. It was a stunning revelation.

He'd assumed, after it was all over, when he had had time to think about what Bran and the Drews forgetting would really mean, that whatever friendship they'd had, whatever connections they'd forged, would fall apart, the bricks no longer able to stay together without the mortar of their shared experiences and effort. He'd never really considered that it might be otherwise. Of course they'd remember that they'd been friends of some sort, but nearly every interaction they'd had would of necessity be vague at best. Will hadn't blamed them for it; in his heart, he'd already bid them farewell.

Now he saw that he'd been wrong. It made him see everything in an entirely different light and he felt happier than he had in months. But of course he couldn't say that to his family, couldn't even let them see how he felt about it lest he be forced to explain. So Will toned down his smile and tried to make light of it. "Imagine that. I thought he'd have forgotten me by now."

"You're not memorable at all," Max agreed. "In fact, I'd already forgotten you. Imagine my surprise to arrive home for Christmas and discover I had an extra brother!"

"I hope you don't intend to claim you forgot to get us all Christmas presents!" James replied, his indignant expression only mostly feigned.

"Yes. No gifts for anyone but Mum and Dad. I've decided I'm an only child." Max's smile was bright as he widened his eyes with fake surprise. "So who are all of you again?"

This rapidly degenerated into the sort of rambunctious half-argument that often resulted when most of the Stantons were home. Will was content to let it happen, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed smile on his face. He had things to think about and, later, a letter to write. He wasn't yet sure what he'd say in it, not certain what it would be safe to reveal, but if anyone would understand how he felt, it would be Bran. Even if he no longer remembered why, the boy who had been the Pendragon had still had a lifetime of being different and feeling alone because of it.

Now that he knew that, whatever Bran remembered, it was enough that he still wanted to be friends, Will was eager to get started. He slipped away from the table, book and note in hand, and headed upstairs to find a way to explain how he felt without revealing too much. And maybe, one day, if all went well, he could do more. He hadn't forgotten that John Rowland had been strong enough to know about the Light and the Old Ones without finding the weight too much to bear. He was only a man. How could Bran, who had once been more, be any less capable? He remembered their first meeting, when Bran recited the first verses about the golden harp, and smiled. Yes, he would understand.

* * *

With the excitement and bustle of the holiday, combined with waiting for a response to the letter he'd managed to post while Christmas shopping, Will didn't slip back into melancholy until Christmas Eve. It was another thing he should have seen coming and somehow hadn't. Maybe he'd been unconsciously trying not to think about it.

It was Paul who reminded him. "I suppose we'll be back early this year," he said as they were gathering to go caroling, and Will paused, his coat half on, jolted by the sudden realization. Of course they would be; how could he have forgotten? Just a few days ago, he'd thought about how many people were gone, but somehow he'd been too busy to think about it since.

"It's a shame," Mr. Stanton agreed. "Miss Greythorne was such a part of this community, especially after that storm two years ago. She'll be missed."

"No punch," James agreed mournfully, his expression suggesting this was a tragedy of epic proportions.

"I expect it's really the mincemeat pies you'll miss," Mary replied primly.

"Let's bring the candles anyway," Will said quickly, derailing the developing argument. He'd spoken quietly, but somehow everyone seemed to hear it clearly, as though he'd shouted into an unexpected silence. He could feel them all staring and he flushed under the sudden attention. "I just thought," he mumbled, "we could bring the candles, and Paul could play the flute she gave him, and... we could sing for her, one last time."

He could still feel them looking at him and was horribly conscious that this was perhaps not the sentiment of a 13 year old boy. But it was _right_ ; he knew it was, somewhere deep inside in those other instincts he had had so little reason to use of late.

"Yes," Paul finally said. "I think that would be nice." A brief rush for candles and coats followed, and then they were out the door and into the cold, clear night.

Will almost wished he hadn't said anything; he could feel the others sneaking curious glances at him and it made him feel uncomfortably self-conscious. Worse, he found it hard to behave normally, to fake the excitement he usually felt when they went caroling. Instead, he felt a terrible sadness pressing down on him, a sense of loss that stole his breath and lent his singing an almost funereal air, which worked all right for "Silent Night" but clashed horribly with "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Christmas Eve had always been so full of promise and anticipation, but all he could think of was what he had lost, not what was to come.

At last they stood in front of the Manor. The windows were dark and there was scaffolding on the walls; Miss Greythorne had had no heirs and had left her ancestral home to the town, so it was finally undergoing some much needed renovation. It was a good use for it and he didn't disapprove, but the scaffolding seemed eerie in his current mood, almost ominous.

But this was his idea; he wouldn't back down now. "Let's sing the Wassail Song and 'Good King Wenceslas.'" Choices too cheerful by far for his mood, but Miss Greythorne had loved them. Robin lit the candles and they all began, Will putting more effort into faking cheerfulness for this than he had before, though this time there was no audience.

No audience he could _see_ , that is, only the lights of their candles reflected in dark, blank windows. He couldn't look away; they seemed disembodied, like fairy lights twinkling to lure the unwary to their doom rather than ordinary candles held by his brothers and sisters. While he stared at them, his awareness of the world around him receded. Will didn't look away from the lights in the glass; he refused to turn his head, afraid this was only wishful thinking.

But as they began "Good King Wenceslas," the lights in the windows suddenly multiplied, from a few flickering candles into a field of stars. Will felt he was on the hill in the dark again, surrounded by the Circle of the Old Ones as they gathered to help Arthur fight the first great rising of the Dark. He couldn't see them, but he could feel their presence, knew they were there with senses he couldn't name, but had learned to rely on. And then, as he finished the first verse, the words of the page that he'd not be able to sing much longer, a new voice joined in.

Will smiled; he'd know that voice anywhere. _Merriman._ At last. When it was time for the page to sing again, he put his whole heart into it. Despite the lyrics of doubt and fear, he felt only joy swelling inside him.

It couldn't last; he knew that. They hadn't really come back, not to stay. But they were here, for him, one last time.

And as the singing stopped, leaving only the haunting song of the flute, he saw them. Just for a moment, but they were solid, standing right in front of him: Miss Greythorne and Merriman. Not Miss Greythorne as he'd last seen her, old and tired, but the younger one he'd seen at the party he'd attended more than a century ago. She curtsied to him, beaming with happiness. "Happy Christmas, Will Stanton."

Merriman nodded and bowed. "Happy Christmas, my Will the watchman. Watch well in the year to come."

Even as they faded, disappearing as the night reformed itself solidly around him, thick with cold and impatient Stantons, Will was still smiling. Happy Christmas, he mouthed, to no one he could see. Yes, he thought it would be.

  



End file.
